


Gentlemen prefer blondes

by SDJ2



Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: Best Friends, Canon Compliant, Childhood Friends, Explicit Sexual Content, I didn't think I'd be writing something like this but then it happened, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, RPF, Underage - Freeform, Underage Masturbation, and discovering masturbation, but if the fact that they're 13 bothers you please don't read, i mean this is based on something that Art wrote, okay in this fic they are underage, they're only 13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:02:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24688087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SDJ2/pseuds/SDJ2
Summary: Two teenagers watching a movie in the back of the theatre.
Relationships: Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon
Comments: 17
Kudos: 10





	Gentlemen prefer blondes

**Author's Note:**

> Recently I read Art's 'What Is It All But Luminous' for the first time, and wow, you have to read between the lines a lot in that book, but sometimes it's like Art was horny and thinking about sex all the damn time. He literally wrote Paul and he compared notes on masturbating, and then the entry on being a horny teenager in the back row of the movie theatre also didn't leave much to the imagination. So I combined these two stories of them discovering masturbation together. 
> 
> They're quite young in this fic though (13 years old), so be advised if underage sexual content is not your thing.

> " _We showed each other our versions of masturbation (mine used a hand)."_
> 
> [About Jane Russel]
> 
> _"She was a screen star in ’54, with Marilyn. I was the horny adolescent, sitting in the back row watching them. Main Street movie theater. Winter coat upon my lap. Scared stiff but getting sticky. That’s how good the acting was."_
> 
> _(_ Art Garfunkel _, What Is It All But Luminous. Notes from an Underground Man)_

Paul thinks that maybe this was a colossally bad idea after all.

There is a reason his parents had forbidden him to see the movie a year earlier, when it was released in the hot, sweltering summer of 1953. At age 12, he was definitely deemed ‘too young’ for such ‘musical’ cinema, but the posters of the two scantily clad women, one brunette and one blonde, had been found all over the city, and one of his classmates had boasted about sneaking into the theatre for a glimpse at the two women singing and dancing.

Which is why, when the movie theatre on Main Street, only a few blocks away from Paul’s home, has a special one-time showing of the movie again around Christmastime of 1954, he grabs Art and drags him with him for an adventure. They’ve also managed to sneak into the movie theatre, where they’re now in the last row, slid low into their seats so that the top of their heads are barely visible above the head rests of the theatre chairs.

And basically, that’s all there is to this movie. Singing and dancing. It’s not like it has nudity or anything, but on the other hand, the main stars’ red glittery dresses with a split the whole length of their thighs and the illusion of cleavage to their navels, have left little to the imagination. Technicolor adds a sensuality to all the scenes and they start to lead a life of their own in Paul’s head.

And Paul is a healthy 13-year old boy. He has _a lot_ of imagination. He is also plagued by regular wet dreams and a _schmuck_ that gets excited for no reason at all and always at very inconvenient times.

And now is one of those times. As Marilyn Monroe oohs and aaahs about a tiara, the pointed shape of her breasts under the lilac dress she’s wearing and her red lipstick lips do all kinds of funny things to his head. Maybe not so much his head alone, but his nether regions as well, where things are definitely starting to stir. He feels the tell-tale squeeze in his balls and the swelling of his pecker even before he consciously registers that he’s in public and this is not the time nor the place to be able to do anything about it.

Paul is still finding the best way to take care of it when he’s at home. A few years ago he woke up with sticky underwear for the first time, but it’s not until about a year ago that he has found out that, when he’s pulled from slumber before anything has happened in his subconscious that has caused him to spill, he can roll onto his stomach and grind into the mattress. Using that pressure and his own body weight, has done amazing things for him getting rid of the restlessness of early morning, and last summer, void of the morning rush for school, he experimented languidly with various states of undress and Kleenex tissues on his mattress. There’s only so much you can do to hide from your parents the crusty remains of ejaculation in your boxers or on the mattress, so the discovery of putting disposable tissues under his belly was, in his own view, a stroke of genius.

He has also found out that putting a pillow under his hips creates all kinds of delicious friction in all the right places, and it’s easier to move his hips that way, using his arm and core muscles to push into the bed beneath him slowly, deliberately, without making the bed creak too much and giving away his nocturnal activities to his parents and younger brother.

Seeing Elvis only a few months ago shake his hips and groin in movements not unlike Paul’s own, gave him even more ideas. Would he be able to achieve the desired effect standing up? A few weeks ago he had pushed his groin to the cold, tiled wall of the bathroom, standing up in tub in which he was taking a hot bath, and, flexing his glutes a couple of times while trapping his glans between his thigh and the wall, succeeded in painting white stripes to the green flowers on the tiles. 

But he’s still searching for a way to make things more…convenient. Faster. With easy clean-up. Because as horny as he gets sometimes, there’s no way to do something about it outside of the confines of his home. Take now, for instance. He’s stuck in the theatre seat with no way of excusing himself to go to the bathroom without raising suspicion. That of both Artie and the theatre staff, whom they’d cunningly avoided and deceived by sneaking in. Besides, there’s no way anything can ever happen when he only has the dirty walls of a public toilet stall to hump. The thought alone causes him to wince.

By the time the two actresses on the screen dance around in a figure-hugging bodysuit, their legs long and bare, he can’t do anything but slide down a little deeper in the seat and shift uncomfortably, the coat on his lap hiding the bulging shape at the front of his pants.

He feels rather than sees Art’s arm shift next to him and steals a quick glance at his friend. Art’s eyes are glued to the screen but his mouth is half open and his chest rises and falls in a rhythm that seems faster than normal. Paul has to stifle a chuckle; he’s glad to see that he’s not the only one whose imagination is running rampant, undressing the two women with his eyes. Paul wonders if they would look anything like in the magazines that Art’s older brother had hidden in his room – Art and he had stolen them once last summer when Jules was out and had giggled at every image of the naked bodies on the pages. After putting the magazines back where they’d found them, Paul had walked home rather awkwardly, with the sole goal of diving into his bed to relieve the growing pressure in his balls; he was pretty sure, from the way Art had kind of ushered him out of the house, his friend had done the same.

Paul feels another movement next to him and turns his gaze to Art’s forearm and his left hand, which disappears under the black winter coat that is equally suited to camouflage any embarrassing growth in a young boy’s lap. Still, the fact that Art’s suffering the same fate, doesn’t relieve him of his own miserable feeling of helplessness, of not being able to deal with the hardening in his pants.

When he hears some rustling next to him, his first thought is that Art is also looking for a way to sit more comfortably but Art’s lower body is not moving. Instead, the coat on Art’s lap is rising and falling, and it takes another minute before Paul realizes that Art is not just shifting the coat’s position so that it covers a larger area, but there’s a steady rhythm to it. The moment it hits him that Art is taking care of things _in public_ , _right next to him_ , he feels his face grow impossibly hot. He is glad for the darkness in the movie theatre so he can hide the redness rising in his cheeks. His brain is completely muddled, and the one thing he’s wondering about is how Art can apply enough pressure with the coat, through a layer of trousers no less, without moving his hips. Surely he needs more friction than that. He shifts again, desperately, and elbows Art in the side, alerting Art to the fact that he’s aware of what’s going on. Art stills completely, caught in the act, and looks over at Paul with his eyes wide open. Paul is looking pointedly back at Art, but then Art’s gaze moves to Paul’s lap and he grins. He honest to god grins, that little _bastard_. Paul would think it’s funny, the thought of them as two horny teenagers in the back of the movie theatre, if he wasn’t so goddamn frustrated at the current predicament they’ve found themselves in and his inability to do something about it.

Except Art doesn’t seem to be despairing. _He_ doesn’t look vexed. In fact, Art is goggling the two women on the white screen again, and lazily, without qualms, resumes the movement in his hand, as if Paul’s interruption has never happened.

Paul wants to cry. He wants to scream in anger and resentment.

“Art,” Paul hisses. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Art leans closer to him but does not tear his gaze from the movie screen in front of him. “What does it look like I’m doing?” he whispers back. “I just gotta…”

And Paul nearly loses it, the adrenalin coursing through him wildly, like an electrical current without grounding. “But how?” he all but begs, and something in his tone makes Art pause and once again he looks over at Paul, a frown lining his face. “How, what?” Art asks, and it comes out softly, a ghost of a whisper.

“How can you….how do I…I don’t…know.” Paul wants to continue, but he’s on the verge of crying, and he doesn’t want to be that vulnerable in front of Art, whose face is flickering in shades of pink and other colours, reflecting the alternating scenes in the movie in front of them.

It all becomes too much. He just wants this movie to end already, so he can go home and be embarrassed in private. Art is still looking at him, and he wants the ground to just open up and swallow him already. He squeezes his eyes shut. And then…Art does the unthinkable.

Art’s fingers push his coat aside and start fumbling with Paul’s belt, and Paul’s not even sure if this is really happening. Maybe he fell asleep during the movie and he’s dreaming this all up. But Art manages to pull his zipper down, and this is…this cannot be happening. He tries to push Art’s hand away. “Art, what are you…you have to _stop,_ ” he whispers urgently. But Art grabs his wrist and forces Paul to quiet down. “Shhh…” Art murmurs, and his hair brushes Paul’s face. It tickles. “Let me help you. I’ll just show you how.” Paul is quite certain the entire theatre just heard his zipper open.

But before Paul can renew his protest, Art has reached his hand inside the fly of his boxers and he feels Art’s warm fingers enclose around his shaft. The meaning of the word epiphany has just appeared in the form of a golden-haired boy. He lets out a breath he’s been holding. Art waits for just the smallest of moments, silently asking permission to continue, which, Paul thinks, bears testament to their friendship. If he were to indicate now to abort, Art would do so, no questions asked. Paul has enough brain power left to know that Art just wants to help him out, like he said. But, to be fair, he’s already too far gone now, and denying himself the release he’s so desperately seeking seems a bit foolish. He doesn’t even think too much about whether or not Art might think his junk is small in his hand, or about the fact that they’re both male and maybe they’re not supposed to be _those_ kinds of buddies, doing _those_ things in their bedrooms while their parents think they’re recording their voices together and talk about baseball. Which, up until now, has actually been the essence of their camaraderie.

With a small but unmistakable nod, he grants Art permission. Art squeezes his fingers tighter, and that sensation alone feels so wonderful, so mind-blowingly sublime, that Paul feels a burst of disappointment at himself for not coming up with it on his own, even though his methods also have their merit. When Art finally moves his hand, stroking up and down lazily but purposefully, Paul has to bite his lower lip. If he doesn’t, he’ll make sounds: moans, whimpers or squeaks, none of them allowed to escape now, in the public setting they’re in.

Art seems to have forgotten they were watching a movie, and focuses all his attention on Paul and how he responds to certain fluctuations of pressure or variations in speed. On a normal day, Paul likes being in the center of attention, but this is quite a lot. He feels watched, in what should be a private moment, but at the same time, he feels strangely safe, glad that it’s Art who’s sharing this moment with him.

Paul is sure that Art only meant to demonstrate a certain sequence of movements, a _technique_ if you will, and then would have left matters in Paul’s hands again, literally. But Paul is so turned on, despite these rather odd circumstances, that it takes only a few tugs from Art’s hand before he feels the familiar spread of warmth in his nether regions, crawling around low in his belly like a large colony of ants quickly leaving their nest through the same tunnel. Then Art thumbs his slit in such a bold and unexpected turn of events, and Paul only has enough time to grab the armrests of the seat, his knuckles white, before his orgasm hits him like a ton of bricks.

While he takes a few deep breaths to allow him to come down from the high, he thinks this is rather embarrassing. And how is he going to explain the state of his shirt to his mother? Frantically he searches his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe his clothes clean, while Art’s eyes follow his movements, mouth still in a silent o shape. “Sorry," Paul murmurs to Art. “I didn’t expect…” “It’s okay,” Art interrupts him, and somehow Art’s managed to avoid his fingers getting sticky. “The first time I did that, I also found it very quickly to be quite uh…nice.” Art grins, and Paul smiles back sheepishly, pulling his zipper back up and moving his coat back to his lap.

He gestures in the direction of Art’s lap. “Do you, uh…I mean, uh…” Paul begins, but he quickly shuts his mouth when a guy a couple of rows in front of them suddenly snaps his neck back and says “shhhhhhh”, rather angrily.

They both don’t dare to move another muscle after that. The movie is done 20 minutes later.

When they’re both outside again, walking home after pretending they belonged in the theatre and they had just seen Walt Disney’s recently released _20.000 Leagues Under The Sea_ instead, Paul doesn’t quite know what to say. He decides on discussing the movie’s merits.

“So, that was uh…good acting, wasn’t it?” he comments.

Art starts giggling next to him. “Yeah, except I missed a whole lot of dialogue,” he says, a glint in his eye. Paul can’t help but laugh too.

Art’s street is basically just around the corner from Main Street, his is a few blocks further, so they’re about to split. When they arrive at the crossroads, Art asks “Do you want to come back to mine?”

“Uh…” Paul says hesitantly, “I figured you’d want to be alone for a while?” Art must surely be feeling quite frustrated by now as well, ever since they were shushed by the other moviegoer. Paul is also kind of feeling like trying out some of the things Art so graciously ‘taught’ him earlier, because it looked like this could open up a whole new world for him.

“Oh,” Art says, and scratches the back of his head. “Yeah, I guess.” He doesn’t sound entirely convinced, though. “Actually,” he continues, “I have to admit I was quite curious about how you…did these kind of things before, if you didn’t…if you hadn’t….this wasn’t your first time though, was it?” he finishes, starting to blush uncharacteristically beneath the scarf that's covering the lower half of his face.

“What?” Paul says, a bit indignantly. “No, Artie.” He shuffles his feet on the pavement. “But I guess I did it a bit differently up until now."

The corner of Art’s mouth shoots up. “Right. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?” he wonders, his breath coming out of his mouth in a puff of icy fog.

Paul chuckles. Never a dull moment with a friend like Art, he thinks. Still, he might learn another thing or two, and vice versa. “That sounds fair,” he concludes, and follows Art home.


End file.
